INTERLUDE 6A: I LEFT YOU
“I say: we have forgotten the symbol, and what it means for the one who wears it. Forget the word. Forget the individual, just for a moment. The mage is elevated to the symbol. Through the masked mage our society is able to do more than merely project; we act as receivers, recipients of a form of higher Truth that can only be depicted, never explicated. Whether we do so willingly or unwillingly, consciously or unconsciously, we all actively play out those roles (protector, monster) for ourselves. The cult of personality is not some concrete phenomenon. It is the tip of a silent iceberg, the visible protuberance of a vast entity beneath the surface, reaching out for something more.”
– from ‘The Modern Mage’
18th Mortifost, 990 NE
“Do it again! Go on, lass!”
Imrye smiled. She knew she’d indulge them – she loved the attention. Any attention, really.
She held herself poised, heels together and back straight. “Might I ask for thy glasses, gentlemen?”
The laughter was only slightly less-uproarious than last time; she curtsied with the corners of her grease-stained, gut-smeared apron and leaned across the table to grab an empty tankard.
“Yah do a grand impersonation, lass,” the Northman, her number one fan, rumbled from behind her. “More ale!” he cried, as if she wasn’t standing twelve inches from him.
Then Imrye felt the sting as the big blond sailor swatted her on her backside.
She whirled back to face him and, with excruciating slowness, placed her foot on the seat of the chair in which he was sprawled.
He felt the pressure of her boot between his legs, and the table silenced, all eyes captivated.
The Northman glanced down at the foot, back to Imrye’s face, his gaze pleading –
She lifted her leg and stamped her foot on the floor so fast he must’ve thought she’d gone and done it – he reflexively doubled over in anticipation of pain, and the whole table erupted into laughter.
“Touch my ass again, it’ll be the last thing you touch,” she warned him, still smiling.
“Oooh – might be worth it, I’ll tell you, lads,” the Northman confided to his mates. “Such a firm –“
Imrye reached out and squeezed the man’s beard-obscured cheek, tugging on the whiskers such that he winced and sealed his trap shut.
“Better,” she said.
Before he could pluck up his courage enough to give her another excuse to stop working, she gathered up the mugs and hopped off behind the bar to fetch more ale. She was serving on her own this afternoon, and although the main room of the Battered Hog was next to empty she had to keep on top of things – the day was starting to wane, and if Tephel came downstairs from his room early and found empty cups or an unstoked hearth she would be in for it.
She liked this job and she wanted to keep it. Not many people were willing to hire women like her; here in Salnifast-by-the-Sea her gender and complexion meant nothing, but her elven heritage marked her as noble-born in this country – a fact people were constantly reminding her of, be it consciously or unconsciously, from the very first day she arrived here, two and a bit years back. (She’d first perfected her much-praised highborn accent by making sarcastic comments at the expense of those who stared at her slanted eyes, pointed ears, unusual hair.) On top of that, her tallness seemed to make lots of men agitated – at least the non-drunk ones – and coupled together these were enough to make most potential employers incapable of being anything but intimidated by her.
Tephel wasn’t intimidated by her in the slightest, and seemed to realise she needed him more than he needed her, especially now winter was here and the ice-wind blew in across the bay. His harshness was reassuring, in a way. He was someone who didn’t misunderstand her.
If there was one trade off to her unnatural physique, she barely looked sixteen despite the fact she was about to pass what she guessed to be her thirtieth Yearsend. She liked this not because she was vain (well, of course she loved the fact she could still eat whatever she liked and stay in shape) but because no one knew she wasn’t sixteen. She didn’t have to pretend to grow up, didn’t have to pretend to have the answers to life’s hard questions, or even be on the path to finding them. She could revel in her identity or lack thereof. The silver lining to a cloud that consisted of being abandoned in a human village as a toddler, raised by the kindness of strangers.
But she’d always lived by the water – the lakeside fishing village where she’d grown up was her first real home, of course, but when she’d spread her wings for distant shores she’d always hugged the water’s edge. And that was why she needed to keep this job at the Hog: she couldn’t leave Salnifast-by-the-Sea. The world’s greatest port was the place for her. She’d taken trips upriver to see the wonder that was Mund, but even that awesome monument to the Realm didn’t do anything for her. The ocean held her heart; this she’d known from the moment she’d first beheld it.
Wyrda had a reputation for treachery and being the cause of calamity, as befitting the Maker of the Tides, She Who Slumbers Submerged – but she wasn’t a dark goddess. She was revered, along with all the other Gods of the Light, during the important ceremonies and festivals of every culture in every province Imrye had ever visited. And Imrye had always felt an affinity, a strange link with the Fish-Queen that went far deeper than liking a bit of cod. She’d spend evenings with her elbows on the marble rails, standing under the lanterns that swung in the salt breeze, just looking out into the darkness. Hearing the voice of the sea, drowning out the dock-workers and sailors. Listening to her wordless, rhythmic cries and adding her tears to its endless song. Wondering if the goddess was alone down there too, as alone as she was up here.
That would come in a couple of hours, once the punters started showing up and the others arrived to take over her shift, Mairdae and Fjarni and Phreme. For now she put on her less-frowny face and returned to the Northman’s table, furnished them with a silver’s-worth of beer, endured a few more jibes and gave a few more back…
Maybe a visit to the Northman’s boat would be in order, on her night-time ramblings, once she’d seen enough of the sea. The fellow been a very naughty boy today, and she wanted to have a stern word with him in private.
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She was musing on this while she stood with her poker, prodding the fire farthest from the door – when she heard it bang open and the swift rushing of feet.
“’Ere ‘e is!” snarled the first through the doorway, only increasing his speed as he spoke.
None of the usual insult-trading, dark looks that could extend across the length of a whole afternoon – no. There were eight of them, against the five in the Northman’s gang. They’d brought no real weapons that Imrye could see – except the metal half-gloves a few of the attackers were wearing across their knuckles. But they didn’t need the advantage of numbers, the advantage of weaponry. They came prepared for a fight, and their targets were pretty far gone in drink, without the fire-in-the-blood of combat. In the time it’d take for the drunks to get ready for a fight, they were already defeated.
She’d witnessed violence like this between rival sailor-crews before, but she’d always been there for whatever precipitated it, always been able to prepare herself mentally for the distressing sights and sounds. This happened in less than ten seconds, from start to finish…
Bones were broken. One man’s ear was almost torn-off by a particularly unfortunate, half-missed blow from a metal-clad fist. The guy to the Northman’s left was thrown backwards, taking the chair with him, and when the rear of his head connected with the floorboards it was with a sickening crunch. The man didn’t move again, and no one seemed to notice or care as he lay there in the wreckage of the chair – someone even kicked his face just to be sure.
There was the poker in Imrye’s hand, and its presence there was a weight that exceeded any calculation of the object’s properties. It was a weapon – could she use it to end this, crack one of the attackers in the head, make them all turn and run? It was a liability – could she throw it down to make it clear she wasn’t a threat without drawing any attention to herself?
The heat of the fire was suddenly a living thing and she wanted to back away, but she was trapped in the moment, the indecision.
Who am I?
It was almost like she could see two paths, two future-selves branching off into the distance, and which of them was the right path to follow – which of them left her alive, never mind anyone else – was impossible to tell. She wasn’t a diviner.
The one who’d led them into the Hog was crouching over the handsome Northman.
“This is for the nailbiter job,” he hissed, “just so as yer unnerstans on the shadow side why yer dead. The man sends ‘is regards.”
He produced a long dirk from inside his leather jerkin and casually flipped it in the air, then punched it straight down into the Northman’s chest.
Imrye dropped the poker and it clattered on the hearthstones. One of the thugs looked at her, but it was only a glance.
The leader yanked the blade free, then drew its edge across the Northman’s throat before standing straight again, spitting on the dying man, and turning to leave.
Once all eight of them were across the threshold and the door slammed shut on the grey daylight, the paralysis departed and Imrye ran to the patrons – three of them were nursing broken noses, wrists, fingers – but the guy who’d fallen backwards was so dead he’d even stopped twitching – and the Northman, the Northman…
She slipped in the blood pouring from his torn throat, his punctured heart. She manoeuvred his head into her lap, lying it upon her apron – his blond hair was wet, already matted black with the life-fluid running from him –
His lips moved but only red bubbles formed.
She pressed her hand against his throat, reached down to put a firm hold on his muscular, heaving chest. She had no idea where the wounds really were – the injury-sites were already clogged messes. She could only hold him, give him what comfort she might in his last moments…
She felt the pity well up within her, move through her, and in its wake her mind frantically seized on a course of action.
“Get help!” she barked at the groaning sailors strewn around on the floor, then raised her voice: “Tephel! Tephel!”
“Th-the poker?” one of his mates muttered, wincing in obvious pain.
“You can’t just burn wounds like these!” she cried. “We – we need a druid –“
“N-nah, lass,” the Northman said, coughing. “Dr-druids… cost… too tootin’ much.”
She laughed, and the tears in her eyes fell loose as her head shook.
“Damn you, don’t make me laugh while you’re dying –“
“Who said owt about dyin’? Lass, be me ever s’ bold – yer know I’d do – anythin’ – to get this close to yer…”
Even his friends were taken aback by the calm with which he was taking his end.
Almost reverently, she lowered her face, kissed him on the forehead.
Mortiforn free your soul, Northman, she prayed.
His face stilled.
Imrye reached out with a trembling hand to close his open eyes –
The eyes moved to regard her – he sat up and crowed in exultation.
“Gotcha! Just ’ow must a man play dead to get one on ‘is lips, eh? Look! Look at me!”
He spun around and, still crouching, wiped away a handful of wine-red blood from his throat to reveal no cut, nothing, there was nothing; he tore open his vest to expose his drenched, hairy, unwounded chest.
Imrye froze. His mates froze, but they weren’t looking at him. All their eyes were on her.
“But – how…”
She looked down at her own hands.
“I…”
Who am I now?
She had felt something. Something that had flowed through her.
“Oi! Witch-girl, put yer ‘ands on Dervim!” one of them grunted, a grimy, thin-bearded fellow with blood still leaking from his busted nose.
She didn’t look up.
“Dervim’s gone, Saz,” the Northman said. “Leave it be.”
“You gotta be kiddin’ me, right?” Saz cried, lunging closer –
The grimy man was too fast for her number one fan to get in the way, and he seized Imrye by the shoulder in an attempt to drag her forwards, attend to the no-longer-twitching Dervim.
It felt as though he hadn’t gotten quite as good of a hold on her flesh as he should’ve. She went with the motion, hoping to avoid most of the pain that would come with resisting, but she couldn’t feel anything.
Once she was on her feet she planted them, and from Saz’s wide-eyed expression it seemed he had very quickly realised he could no longer drag her. To prove her point she reached out, took the grimy man’s upper arm, and pushed him away.
“I know you’re upset, but don’t – touch – me,” she said.
He backed away even more quickly than he’d approached.
She walked of her own accord to Dervim’s side, knelt, placed her hands on him, but before she even knew what she was looking for, she knew she wasn’t going to find it here. The body – it wasn’t like the Northman’s. Wasn’t like her own. Something was missing.
“I’m very sorry, Saz, but Dervim really is gone.”
Saz didn’t want to hear it, and neither did the other two. They fled, nursing their wounds, cursing the Northman – and with a grateful, regretful backwards glance at Imrye he chased after them.
Tephel was on the stairs, leaning on the bannister in the corner, and he yelled down at her:
“Don’t think I’m gonna pay you any more to be a bodyguard! I saw you push that fella off.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Her mouth moved of its own accord – her eyes and her hands were still on Dervim’s body.
“Ah, another corpse I see. Well, they’re worth a few bob. Not much obvious damage… Head over to Fynster’s and tell him I need a favour.”
“Will do.”
She stood up, wiped her hands unconsciously on her apron before untying it, throwing it on the counter and heading for the door herself.
She heard Tephel shout something about needing a coat before the door closed behind her, but she ignored him. She moved automatically down the street towards the apothecary’s on the corner, still wringing her hands in her pockets, clenching them over and over, sensing the waves of life coursing their way through her body.
The wind should’ve cut her, but she raised her face into it, let it sweep aside her turquoise hair. Tears filled her eyes, but this was joy – pure, unadulterated joy.
Wyrda be praised!
She had her answer. She knew who she was.
I said we needed a druid… and a druid is what we got!
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